


Here's to Many Happy Returns

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Birthday Presents, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Thor (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to the belief of nearly everyone at SHIELD, it is actually not that difficult to figure out Coulson's birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

> **Set the July before the events of _Thor_.**
> 
> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing.
> 
> This was supposed to be a quick drabble as a kind of thank you for my tumblr followers. It got dosed with some gamma radiation and Hulked out. Thankfully it was extremely fluffy gamma radiation.

 

Contrary to the belief of nearly everyone at SHIELD, it is actually not that difficult to figure out Coulson's birthday. The month and day are available in the top level of his personnel file, though the year itself is classified, but the whole thing -- month, day, year -- is printed right there on his ID badge. If no one else is brave enough to check out Coulson's file or to stand close enough to see that tiny print... well, Clint's not going to complain.

So figuring out the date is not the hard part. No, the hard part is deciding what kind of cake the man would want above all others. Clint has a few ideas as the date draws nearer, but he is waffling between German chocolate cake, spice cake, and lemon cake, all of which he has seen Coulson enjoy in the past.

Then, his pen dies when he is completing a mission report in Coulson's office, and his handler gestures wordlessly toward one of his desk drawers without looking away from the video footage he is reviewing on his monitor. The half empty bag of caramels is hidden away like a shameful secret, and Clint struggles to hide his grin as he digs for a spare blue pen.

The day arrives, and Clint realizes that _someone_ else must know when Coulson's birthday is, because the cafeteria is serving the chicken enchilada casserole that Coulson loves, even though it is supposed to be lasagna day.

He texts Coulson as he leaves the range. _Wanna grab some lunch?_

The answer comes just as he reaches the cafeteria. _Can't today. No time._

_Want me 2 bring it 2 u? Ench casserole..._

The reply is almost instant. _That would be great. Thx._

It's not easy carrying two to-go boxes, his soda, Coulson's iced tea, his bow, his quiver, his gear bag, and the little box he's trying desperately not to smash, but he manages, barely keeping everything in his hands as he nudges the door to Coulson's office closed with his foot.

The grateful smile Coulson gives him as he clears space on his desk for their food is more than enough compensation for his troubles.

Coulson works as he eats -- saying he was busy was clearly not a ploy to get out of lunch -- so Clint takes the opportunity to read up on some of the suggestions R&D has sent him for refinements to his weaponry. He tries not to let himself think about the reason he seems better able to concentrate here than anywhere else.

Clint waits until the food is gone and a few minutes have passed before he sets the little brightly-colored box in the middle of Coulson's desk. His handler eyes it curiously.

"Happy birthday, boss," he says nonchalantly.

Coulson blinks at him and reaches for the box. The mouthwatering smell of caramelized sugar fills the air when he lifts off the lid.

"Triple salted caramel," Clint informs him, watching the corner of Coulson's lip curve in a tiny smile as he stares down at the cupcake. "From that bakery you like over by your place."

"This... it truly wasn't necessary, but thank you, Barton. Clint. It looks delicious."

Clint swallows roughly, pushing down the thrill of hearing his name on the other man's tongue. "You're welcome."

"I don't think I've had birthday cake on my own birthday since probably my 35th," Coulson muses, and okay, that's just sad. Clint's even _more_ glad now that he didn't wuss out and give up on this scheme. "Only one?" his handler adds. "You don't want one?"

"Not my birthday." He’d had one when he went to buy Coulson’s – he’d had to test it, after all, to make sure he wasn’t going to give Coulson a crappy birthday cupcake. Coulson is in for a treat.

He’s so busy imagining the way Coulson's face will light up with pleasure when he tastes it that he almost misses it when the other man says, "Are you sure? We can share -- "

"No. Thank you. I... it's for you."

"I appreciate it," Coulson says, and Clint quickly looks away as his handler catches a bit of the sticky icing on his finger and lifts it to his lips.

Coulson hasn't tossed him out on his ass yet, so Clint takes a deep breath and reaches into his gear bag. The gifts are not wrapped -- if Coulson hadn't appreciated the cupcake, Clint was simply going to find a way to leave them here in the office somewhere without acknowledging that they are, in fact, birthday gifts.

The latest Pratchett hardcover makes a solid thunk when he puts it on the desk, and he gently sets the audio CD version on top of it. Coulson blinks at them for a moment and then raises his questioning gaze to Clint.

It seems like Clint's entire vocabulary deserts him when he's caught by that piercing blue gaze. He rubs the back of his neck nervously, then clears his throat and shrugs.

"I... I knew you didn't have this one yet, and I know you collect the books, but your reading time is kind of... non-existent, so I wanted to get you a version you might actually have time to enjoy in the car or wherever." He pokes at the CD. "It comes with a digital download too, so you can put it on your iPod and listen to it when you go running or..."

Clint trails off and shrugs again, staring down at his hands where they rest on the surface of Coulson's desk. There is silence for several moments, and he's wondering just how far he's stepped over the line when Coulson touches his wrist, his fingers lingering, warm and just the right kind of rough on Clint's skin. He glances up, and freezes.

Coulson's expression is open in a way Clint has never seen it, his eyes soft and just starting to crinkle in the way Clint loves, a warm little smile on his lips.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "That was... that was really thoughtful." He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a minute, clearly steeling himself for something, and Clint is just preparing for him to add that Clint's been way too presumptuous or that he can't accept the gift because it's over the spending limit when Coulson traps him with that sharp blue gaze again and says, "Clint... would you like to have dinner with me?"

Clint blinks stupidly at him. They've had dinner together before, hundreds of times, here in Coulson's office, in medical, in Clint's quarters, in hotel rooms and safe houses, sometimes even in Coulson's off-base apartment, and even -- rarely -- in actual restaurants, but... this is different. The formal way Coulson asked -- he can't mean... "Sir?"

Coulson looks away and bites his lip and Clint has to look down at his hands because, _damn_ , that's distracting. When he looks back, Coulson’s face is carefully blank, and Clint’s heart sinks.

"I need you to understand, Agent Barton, that you are under no obligation whatsoever to agree. If I’ve presumed incorrectly or have in any way overstepped -- "

"Yes!" Clint blurts before he gets any further, and Coulson breaks off abruptly. Clint hurries to fill the silence. "Yes, sir, um, Coulson -- "

"Phil." His voice is soft but firm, and there is what looks like delight in those clear blue eyes Clint has loved for so long, and Clint can't help but stare.

"Phil," he parrots faintly, and he thinks he might be going into shock. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to break a rib, and he has to purse his lips to keep the astonished laughter he can feel bubbling up from bursting free. Coulson's -- _Phil's_ \-- gaze is locked on his mouth, he notices, and he wonders if maybe he just fell asleep here in his handler's office after a big lunch and is dreaming this whole surreal situation. He breathes deeply, trying futilely to center himself, and says, "I would love to have dinner with you, Phil."

Some of the laughter escapes anyway. "You mean all this time, and all I had to do was buy you a cupcake and a book?"

Coulson -- _Phil_ \-- smiles sheepishly, but he doesn't look away. "You are one of maybe a handful of people in SHIELD who've ever bothered to learn when my birthday is, and these gifts... they're _perfect_ , Clint. You know me, better than _anyone_ knows me. You have for years, and well, I just got tired of... pretending that that means nothing. That this is just a close friendship, or good camaraderie."

"You know me, too, sir -- Phil," Clint stumbles, and they share a smile. "Better than anyone ever has."

Their gazes lock, and there is so much that flows between them in this moment -- years of shared experiences and murmured confidences, quiet moments and silent yearning -- and Clint realizes he would be pretty happy to just sit and stare at Phil like this for the next decade or so, able to admire openly instead of in furtive glances or stolen glimpses of his profile in distorted reflections.

The moment is broken when Phil's computer chimes an alert for an incoming email, and then chimes twice more within seconds. Clint's lips twitch as the other man levels a death glare at it and then sighs.

"This week is incredibly busy, and I'll probably be working late every night," Phil says, thinly-veiled frustration biting at the edges of his voice and Clint is staggered by the realization that Phil -- dedicated, workaholic, completely unflappable Agent of SHIELD Phillip J. Coulson -- is annoyed because _his work_ is keeping him from spending time with _Clint_. He resolves to make sure he brings Phil at least one meal a day this week, since Phil is likely to skip meals trying to finish his work sooner -- when Phil is determined, he lets nothing stand in his way, including hunger and low blood sugar. "So, dinner on Saturday?" Phil finishes.

Clint swallows down his doubt -- Saturday is five days away, and that is more than enough time for Phil to come to his senses and regret making the offer -- and nods. "Sounds good."

Phil's hand covers Clint's fingers, stopping them from fidgeting with the edge of one of Phil's stacks of file folders. Clint curls his hand into a loose fist to keep from turning his palm and tangling his fingers with Phil's like a needy child.

"I'm not going to change my mind, Clint," Phil says softly, because he knows -- of course he knows. "I've wanted this for a very long time now."

Questions crowd Clint's mind -- how long is _a very long time now_ , and if that's the case, why hasn't Phil said anything before, and why now, all of a sudden -- and he bites them all back, because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how long it's taken them to come to this point, or why Phil waited until now. What matters is that they have a dinner date on Saturday, Phil says he won’t change his mind, and Phil has never let him down.

"So have I. Wanted it for a very long time, I mean," he says eventually, because if he needs to hear it, maybe Phil does too. Phil's smile widens, just a touch, so he guesses that was the right decision.

Phil's computer chimes again just as his phone signals an incoming text, and Clint reluctantly pulls his hand out from under Phil's and starts gathering the remains of their lunch.

"I'll get out of your way," he says. "I know you have a lot to do."

"For the record, Barton?" Phil says, and it's a small shift -- back to business -- but that incredible warmth is still in his voice, and Clint thinks hazily that it's there because he doesn't _want_ to hide it anymore. "You are never in my way."

Clint grins, and though he's trying for cocky, he has a feeling that he's hit goofy instead. "I'll be sure to remind you that you said that, sir. Frequently."

"Get out of my office, Barton."

"Yes, sir."

He pauses at the door, glancing back for one last look at Phil. He's back at work already, head bent over his files, brow furrowed slightly in concentration, and Clint watches his fingers click rapidly over the keyboard.

_Best birthday present ever_ , he thinks as he shuts the door softly behind him. _And it isn't even **my** birthday._

**END**


End file.
